


Hair Brush, Spanking

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [51]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Object Insertion, POV Inanimate Object, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3438533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series and The Baker Street Monologues Series.<br/>(Double fill because I'm lazy aw yiss.)</p><p>Everyone has a tale to tell in 221B. It's the Hair Brush's turn now.</p><p>________________</p><p>Alphiney has translated this into Chinese woohoo! <a href="http://www.allwatson.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=1841&page=1&extra=#pid112663">Here is the awesome link of awesome!</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair Brush, Spanking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



You've heard the tales, of course. The Wall. The Scarf. The Gloves. The Cane. We all have our tales to tell. None of us are exempt. 

Some will try to convince you they have it worse than others. Absurd, of course. They're just looking for attention. We all have our cross to bear. We've all been used and abused. They're nothing special.

I mean to say, it's not that we object. Not really. It's what we're here for, after all. Perhaps some of the...erm... _ uses  _ aren't strictly manufacturer guaranteed, but none of them are...well... _ destructive, _ really. We're not here to last forever. We're here to be useful. If we start objecting to the way in which we're used...well...how long until we stop being Objects and start being.... _ Human.  _ A distasteful thought.

Myself, for instance. Really it was a puzzle why they even had me. I was rather bewildered when I was first taken from my shelf at the store. I thought perhaps there was a wife. A girlfriend. There wasn't, of course. Then I thought,  _perhaps Mrs Hudson_... but no, her hair is all wrong for a brush like me. Her hair far too fine. One stroke with me and she would have a cloud surrounding her head like a halo that would take a bucket of water to dampen. For a week I lay unused. It was...well, honestly, it was rather awful. A week of languishing, to wonder what my purpose was. To wonder if I had failed in some way. If I would be returned with shame.

When John finally came and took me out of the drawer I was sure that would be it. What possible use could John have for me? The whole flat knows he uses the Plain Black Comb.

So when he took me to the kitchen sink and...and... _ washed  _ me...well...I was certain there was some mistake. Or perhaps he had found me too dirty to use. I wasn't sure. I  _ couldn't  _ be sure. I mean, how  _ could  _ I have been? How could anyone have  _ guessed? _

Well. I won't make you. I mean, really, you wouldn't be able to.

After washing me thoroughly with warm water and soap, John took me to the sitting room. Sherlock was there, sitting on the sofa. The Cushions were quiet for a change. I could feel it, the whole flat just absolutely  _ focused.  _ On  _ me.  _ And when I realised that John's hand was  _shaking_... well. I think I knew then.

I was handed to Sherlock, whose hand was steady. There was no sound in the flat as John undressed. Not even the faintest rustle from the Curtains. Not a single clack from the Skull. And when every stitch of clothing was removed, John knelt beside Sherlock on the sofa and carefully lowered himself down until he was draped on his stomach over Sherlock's knees.

I had no warning. No warning at all. Sherlock's grip tightened and suddenly I was being brought downwards with a speed I was not used to, to land with the smooth back of my body squarely on John's...er...well... _ flesh. _

I don't know how to explain my shock. It was great. Far too great for me to even notice I was being raised for another swift downwards drop until it was already happening.  _ Smack.  _ The sound was indescribable. The sensation was...well...the sen _ sation!  _ Oh dear. I'm respectable. I wasn't meant for this sort of thing.

Except...well...by the time I was reaching the fourth circuit, and the fifth, and I realised with some surprise that below me, John was actually... _ arching up to meet me,  _ that was when I realised that...this was actually rather  _ fun.  _ By the time John was making noises, crying out and asking for more in a rather less than coherent manner...well...I'm ashamed to admit that I wasn't a great deal better off.

After perhaps thirty strokes it stopped, and John was saying  _ such things.  _ Oh they sounded  _wonderful,_ though. So when I heard the crackling laughter of the Lubrication, I was considerably more prepared for what came next.

Oh, _it was_ _ cold.  _ Cold and wet, but it...it felt...well...rather nice, actually. And when I was upended, my grip pointing downwards, my head tight in Sherlock's broad hand with my bristles pressed close against his palm, I yelled nearly as loudly as John in anticipation. And the  _ feeling.  _ Oh! I can't bear to think of it without blushing!

The first touch against the small dark entrance of John's body was almost unbearably hot. After the cold slickness of the Lubrication it felt like a fire on the soft rubber nodes of my therapeutic grip. And when it didn't stop there, when Sherlock's hand became a driving pressure against my head, pushing me, slick and firm into that incredible heat, I swore I would never brush another hair again.

It was glorious. Utterly glorious. When I had been pushed as far in as I could go and John's body was tightening around me and he was panting out Sherlock's name into one of the Cushions, Sherlock started to draw me back out. I did protest this time, loudly and vociferously, but even had Sherlock been able to understand, he would never have heard me over the cries of John, writhing in his lap.

But it was not over. Oh no. Perhaps I had ought to have listened to the Blue Dildo when it had been dropped into the bathroom drawer earlier on that week. I hadn't really thought I'd need to honestly. But it would have prepared me, or at least reassured me in that instance. Perhaps I wouldn't have protested  _ quite  _ so loudly then, though what the Teacups say about being rattled in their cupboards is simple fabrication, undoubtedly the product of their jealously. They will never know, after all, the sensation of being immersed in the fire of John's body, of being held by a strong Human hand and thrust, back and forth, back and forth, that fire renewed and rekindled with every stroke. Their delicate arms will never know the blissful satisfaction that the firm grip of John's clenching muscles will bring as he screams and convulses with the pleasure of their presence inside of him.

No, they will never understand these things. And afterwards, to be gently washed once more by reverential hands. To be taken and placed as a treasured object, to rest until the next time their services are required with the firm knowledge that they have brought satisfaction upon their Humans. No. They will never understand. I pity them, really. Truly, I do.

 


End file.
